


Moscow, Russia. Eight Years Later.

by kitcassiachan



Series: seen: a haikyuu collection [17]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Reunions, Tokyo 2020 Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27514882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitcassiachan/pseuds/kitcassiachan
Summary: It takes eight years. Not that Kuroo’s counting.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Yaku Morisuke
Series: seen: a haikyuu collection [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711519
Comments: 42
Kudos: 220
Collections: KuroYaku Week2020, stories that touched me





	Moscow, Russia. Eight Years Later.

**Author's Note:**

> originally meant as a drabble before it got too long for twitter. I have been meaning to return to this ship since I wrote my first kuroyaku (part 2 in the series) so here’s post timeskip pining with kuroo POV since it was all about yaku in “boy sweat.”
> 
> For KuroYaku Week 2020, squeezing in as many prompts as possible: day 1 - timeskip, day 2 - confession, day 3 - flirting, day 4 - long distance relationship, day 5 - connect, day 6 - first date.

**Moscow, Russia. Eight Years Later.**

Yaku has grown two inches the next time Kuroo sees him at an airport in Moscow. An insignificant, unobservable amount for anyone but him. It’s immediately pitiful as predicted that he remembers exactly how hugging the old Yaku used to feel, where his stupid little limbs would land in relation to Kuroo’s much taller body.

“Don’t tell me you recruited me just so you could fulfill your unrequited high school crush?” Yaku teases when they pull apart. Kuroo yanks him back and squeezes him in his arms, kisses the top of his hair, holds him. Immediately _and persistently_ pitiful.

He ruffles Yaku’s hair, hand met with crusty locks and a shit ton of sticky product. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost confidence in your skills and think you don’t belong on the team, Yakkun?”

“I have confidence.” Yaku smacks his hand. A singular, blond strand curls against his forehead. Kuroo thinks of brushing it and then thinks of himself in the middle of an airport in Moscow trying to brush his unrequited high school crush’s hair like he’s in some movie.

“Just think it’s curious you came to me yourself,” Yaku says, taking him in. “Long plane ride?”

Kuroo knows he looks it because he stopped at a bathroom before exiting to change out of his pajamas pants and brush his teeth. Immediately and persistently _and mournfully_ pitiful.

It was the association’s idea to get press material of Yaku with his home team but Kuroo could have insisted a little less aggressively it be him traveling to arrange it. Yaku doesn’t have to know that detail but since Bokuto does the whole of Nekoma and by extension Yaku, probably does too.

“But I’m the one pining?” Kuroo chuckles. “Sure you haven’t constructed an elaborate romantic storyline where I fly to the harsh winters of Russia and we have a whole Christmas movie to go through before we confess we’re deeply in love with each other but our careers stand in the way—what?” he crabs. “I’ve put _some_ thought into it.”

Yaku is speechless. Kuroo takes advantage of that ultra rare moment to lay an arm around his shoulders and pull him closer—how many hugs in a period of five minutes are acceptable for an old teammate you haven’t seen in almost a decade? “Awh, what’s the matter? Stole your comeback, didn’t I?”

“It’s July.” Yaku shoves him off.

Kuroo follows him into the crowds, rolling his eyes and dragging his suitcase behind him. He has packed too many outfits for a four-day work trip. Yaku’s wearing shorts and flip-flops. There’s a bandaid on one of his toes that Kuroo wants to kiss. His knees are red. The back of his knees, pale and freckled. He’s ticklish there. Kuroo knows because he has a PhD in ways to get on Yaku’s nerves.

“I seem to remember you being the one with the storylines,” Yaku turns around to mock, catching Kuroo in the not-process of not-glancing at his not-ass. “Asking me out on the last day of school and all that shit.”

He walks backwards now, the little bastard. No ass, all judgment.

Kuroo does not want to talk about this so Yaku _would_ bring it up before they’ve even exchanged how are you-s. Because he has a PhD in ways to get on Kuroo’s nerves.

“I knew you’d reject me,” Kuroo lies. (He was a coward.) “Was doing the team a favor.” (He was a really big coward, like a really, really big coward, as afraid of Yaku rejecting him as he was of Yaku loving him back. What he got was somewhere in between.)

“But did you cry?” Yaku pokes, knowing the answer because Kuroo isn’t a subtle or pretty crier and he also called six times back to back, sniffling broken why-s. Long distance. A good reason. A great reason. Kuroo should have confessed sooner.

“I cried,” Kuroo shrugs nonchalantly. This was eight years ago and he’s now a normal person, who has moved on with grace. “I fucking loved you, of course I cried.”

For a second it looks like Yaku might experience... an emotion. His face is clean of any angry, nose wrinkles but then he rolls his sea-blue eyes and flips back around. “Coulda loved me sooner,” he mutters.

Kuroo laughs. He had missed this kind of transparency. Not something you get often in business and not something he affords many people these days—gotta keep the clients happy, gotta keep everyone happy, always. There’s no time to be bitchy and teasing, his true nature, as Kenma puts it, not his customer service self. Yaku brings out the worst and most in him, and Kuroo misses that about himself. Of course, Yaku had to fuck off to Russia so they never have a chance. Japan’s not good enough for him.

The weather is hot and stuffy. In the short walk to Yaku’s car, Kuroo has sweat circles under his armpits and regrets the button-down shirt, the slacks. He was trying to look official, dignified—who was he kidding?! Outshined by Yaku and his freaking flip-flops.

“You must think highly of me if you think I have enough power to pick players simply because I wanna sleep with them?” he comments, slamming the passenger door closed.

It’s a tiny car. Cheap, Yaku said. Cramped, Kuroo thinks. Their elbows brush if Kuroo doesn’t try to avoid it. Yaku drives one-handed, his other one free to hold and braced on the center console. Kuroo thinks he might hyperventilate. He should have said yes to having a driver hired but Yaku had been so quick with the “I’ll pick you up,” that the thought was immediately banished and he almost stupidly cancelled his hotel booking too.

“You wanna sleep with me?” Yaku asks, backing out of the parking spot. His hand rests behind Kuroo’s seat so he can twist his body to look behind. Kuroo stares at his neck, and swallows. Then fidgets with the AC to stop dripping forehead sweat all over his lashes and nose, and gets hit with a blast of hot air.

“Give it a sec,” Yaku warns, adjusting the temperature. “It’s a piece of shit.”

And they’re off. And it would be in Kuroo’s best interest to shut the fuck up the entire way there. He can fake sleep or pretend to answer work emails—he’s a very busy, very important man now.

Or better yet: “I was referring to everyone else on the team who I do wanna sleep with. You really were the best choice, the only choice of libero—”

“Sappy,” Yaku muzzles him, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

There’s a bruise on his inner wrist that Kuroo wants to kiss because if there’s an anything on anything pertaining this particular man Kuroo immediately thinks of putting his mouth on it. The AC has managed to achieve luke-warm. Kuroo’s thighs might have stuck to the seat. “No. I was making a joke about the fact that everyone else—”

“Don’t ruin it, daddy.”

“And you were—what did you call me?”

Yaku gives him a once-over. “Never thought I’d see the day you had a proper job.”

“Why? What’s that supposed to mean? Did you say ‘daddy’?!”

“You’re right,” Yaku nods to himself. “I’m the real daddy around here. Where to?” he asks a spit-choked Kuroo too afraid to breathe in case he coughs and looks ridiculous. 

“Let me uh, get the address,” he recovers, pulling out his phone to search for the booking. “It’s the Moscow Marriot in—”

“Hotel? For our first date?” Yaku interjects like he was setting him up the whole time. “You have to wine and dine me first, Tetsu. I’m not that kinda guy.”

“Stop flirting with me, _Mori_. I’m a married man.”

Yaku smiles at the nickname. Kuroo would be lying if he said he hadn’t been saving it for maximum impact. Is it terrifying or easy or both to fall back into this with Yaku?

“No, you’re not,” Yaku says, fucking fond.

His free hand reaches to pat Kuroo’s thigh long enough to make Kuroo forget everything about where he was going with this and how he told his therapist (Kenma) that he was one hundred percent not going to make this trip about how hot Yaku is these days: 0.5 seconds.

“No, I’m not,” Kuroo sighs. It’s been eight years and he’s not normal. “But hey, I could have been. I’m rich now.”

“How?” Yaku mutters, staring ahead. “I haven’t asked you yet.”

“Are you gonna be this annoying the whole time?” Kuroo snaps, hoping for the answer to be—

“Yes. I’m nothing if not dependable. Cancel your booking.”

“What?” He’d have gotten whiplash if he wasn’t so revved up already. Yaku gave him too much time to adjust. He should have struck when Kuroo was drooling over his thighs.

“You hungry?” Yaku ignores him.

Kuroo strategically waits for the next red light to look at him and ask, “Where am I staying then?”

Yaku rolls his eyes. “I know you’re smarter than this.”

“Right back at you.” Kuroo holds his gaze.

“Touché,” Yaku shrugs. “You’re staying with me, in my bed, cause I like you, that enough validation?”

Fuck normal. Eight year pining is the new normal. “But the logistics of where exactly—”

The light turns green. Yaku steps on the gas, shooting the car forward with a rumble and slamming Kuroo against the seat.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! I’m still learning how to write short stories and capture moments. kuroyaku feels like the kind of ship that would settle back to how it’s always been very quickly and also they’re really fun to write banter for. ANYWAY, AND THEN THEY FUCKED. 
> 
> kudos and comments always appreciated if it’s in your heart to give them! more yaku to come in my atsuyaku ! 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kitcassia/status/1326675639865278465?s=21).


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